Catching Up
by Canadian-Peach
Summary: 250 years can create a lot of tension between a former empire and colony. Apparently all they needed to do was talk. One-shot!


"Thank you again for helping me clear out this old room. Two pairs of hands are better

than one."

"It's no problem, France."

Situated on the floor of a Frenchman's storage room were France and Canada. France had called the young country over, feeling like he was the only option. England wouldn't even pick up the phone if he called him, and America ... France didn't think he would be very helpful when it came down to cleaning. So here Canada was, looking through a box labeled 'WWII'.

Canada found nothing of importance in that box and moved it aside with the rest of junk. He could see the older nations eyes glazed over and a melancholy smile plastered on his face. Being alive as long as nations were, it was a difficult task to clear out their artifacts. Some of the things they found brought up memories they tried to forget.

Currently, the French nation was holding something he found from a box labeled 'Jeanne'.

The Canadian was well aware of the story of France's to-be-loved. France told him stories of how they planned their life after the war. France even claimed to still miss her to this day. Besides, five hundred years was a mere blink of an eye when you've been alive as long as nations. Time seemed to flow differently for them.

The nation sighed and placed the item on the floor beside him. He closed the box he was rummaging through and slid it to the side.

Canada watched, consumed with sympathy. He kept quiet, not wanting to disturb France, and moved on to another box. His violet eyes widened slightly when he saw the label of this one. He adjusted his glasses, believing he read it wrong. Clearly that was not the case. His eyes remained fixated on the elegantly printed letters, and his heart swelled.

'Mon fils, Canada'.

France had a box dedicated just for him? Why would he have a box for him? It didn't look like any of his other past colonies had a dedication box. The box looked as if it hadn't been opened in centuries.

Because of this, Canada didn't know if he should open it.

"E-excusez-moi, France," he said hesitantly. The nation directed turned to face the younger and saw the box the boy held. His lips turned up slightly and he placed a hand on top the box. Canada looked up to him with questioning eyes.

"You may open it, Mathieu."

In all honesty, Canada was scared now. France hadn't used his human name since he was merely a colony. He looked up to France's reassuring smile and started to open in. He felt a bit awkward with the French nation's eyes on him. He shrugged off that feeling. Canada pulled off the lid with a nervous inhale.

Upon opening the box, he was met with a white piece of fabric. The box seemed quite filled. He believed the fabric was placed there in order to prevent damage. Once he pulled it out, however, he realized just how wrong he was. France chuckled and placed a hand on the younger mans shoulder.

"Do you remember this?" he asked lightheartedly.

Canada nodded numbly. Just from this one article of clothing he could feel his entire childhood creeping up his spine. The blue ribbon that was rapped around the neck was slowly decaying on itself, and the whole thing took on an old, yellow tinge.

Canada held it in front of himself for a few moments then chuckled to silently.

"Was I really this small?"

"Oh, Oui! I thought you'd never grow! You spent a good portion of your colonial days wearing these petit dresses."

Canada flushed. It wasn't a dress. It was merely a nightgown ... that he wore all the time. He delicately laid the dress on his lap and continued searching through the box. What was this? A picture frame?

He pulled out a rectangular picture frame, covered in layers of dust. He blew the dust away and once again, his eyes widened. What on earth? It was a picture of him, clearly taken back in the late 19th century, as it was coloured in sepia. The Canadian in the photo looked more mature than he thought possible. He looked slightly to his right, lacking a smile and he wore a tuxedo.

"How did you get this?"

For once, France looked sheepish. He scratched the back of his head and let out a nervous laugh, afraid of judgment. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask that," he cleared his throat and continued, "well, I actually requested Anglettere to send it to me. Surprisingly he did. When he sent it, he actually sent majority of the items in this box with it." He saw the gloomy look in the Canadian's eyes and rushed to get his words out. "Ah, but do not worry! He didn't get rid of all your stuff, mon petit! He has a box for you at his place, too!"

Canada's heart thumped loudly in his chest. England had a box for him, too? Canada thought the Brit didn't care for him. Okay, that was a lie, but compared to his brother, America, England clearly favoured the American.

France reached into the box and pulled out something that made the Canadian flinch. His eyes swelled with tears and he removed his glasses. He wiped his glassy, violet orbs and sucked in a shaky breath. Canada felt a hand on his shoulder again and leaned slightly into the touch.

"This was your mother's I believe."

In France's hand was a dream catcher.

Canada nodded silently.

A warm smile met France's lips in rememberance. "I remember you had this with you when I found you. You refused to leave it behind." He rubbed circles on the younger nations back. "I believe you should keep this. Show it to Amérique, perhaps?"

With trembling hands, Canada grabbed the item and brought it to his chest. He released a shaky sigh and smiled. He remembered that day. The day he was found by France. It wasn't long after England had taken in his brother.

Canada had watched from the trees with his mother that day. They watched in fear as the young boy took the strangers hand. Their mother warned them about what threats the strangers were. But they both ended up being whisked away.

Canada missed his mother. America missed her, too. They would still attend native ceremonies in honour of her.

Before the Europeans, it was them. The three of them living in the vast, virgin lands of North America; the New World. She taught them how to survive and to live. Their time together seemed rather short when the young country thought about it.

"Canada?"

"Hm? Oui?" he hummed in reply, his thoughts popping from his mind.

"Are you alright? We can stop if yo-"

"Eh, no it's fine. I was just thinking."

France nodded to the younger, eyes full of understanding. Canada placed the dream catcher on the floor beside him then proceeded to scavenge the box again. Dust, dust and more dust. He wasn't prepared for something to slice his fingers, however. He let out a yelp and pulled his hand back. A cut presented itself along his fingers, with a little bit of blood trickling from it.

"Ca c'était quoi?!" Canada hissed. France immediately took his hand in his and inspected the cut. It seemed fine, and it would heal soon, anyway. Being a nation had its perks sometimes. Just as the Frenchman had thought, the cut stopped bleeding and seemed to be healing itself already. Being a nation _really_ had its perks sometimes.

The Canadian stretched his fingers a bit, feeling weird at the fast healing process. It was still weird to him. "Sorry about that," he mumbled. France merely chuckled. Canada reached back into the box, being more careful this time around. He wanted to find what had caused him to get hurt.

He had a feeling he already knew what it was. To his delight, he was correct. He pulled out three spearheads. Two of them were rather tiny and the other was quite big, bigger than the Canadian's hand. "I knew it," he sighed in delight.

His thumb ran over the ragged edges of each of the rocks and his eyes were distant. It had been so long since he had seen a real, genuine spearhead! All the once nowadays were fakes. He could easily tell the difference between the real and fake.

Violet eyes gazed intently at the larger carving. "Can I keep this one, s'il vous plaît?" The Canuk knew his brother would have a hoot when he saw this! France nodded. "Merci."

He put the relic by his side and groaned. That caught France's attention.

"Is something the matter, mon petit?" he asked.

Canada shook his head, but then nodded, only to make France more confused. "It's just that," he removed his glasses again, and wiped them, rubbing the hem of his hoodie in circular motions on the lenses. "I ... I'm having a pretty hard time with this. I can't imagine what it's like for you and some of the other, older countries. You've all been alive for so much longer than I have." He placed his glasses back on his nose and looked to the man next to him.

France looked amused by this, surprisingly. He let out a low, quiet laugh and grinned to the confused Canadian. "Canada, do not focus on us. While I and others may be très, trèsolder than you, that does not mean your history is insignificant. You have every right to feel the way you do right now," he paused and let Canada sink in those words, then continued, "and besides, I had a major role in your history if I do recall," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

The younger let out a short snort of laughter at the witty comment. Instead of giving an actual reply, he continued to search the box.

To his surprise and displeasure, it was getting empty. The only things left was an old, torn up prototype of the Canadian flag, a few maple leafs that had clearly seen better days, and a few pieces of paper.

Canada quickly skimmed past the ageing flag, having seen so many of its kind before, and the maple leafs, too.

Now only those strange papers remained.

He looked to his side and noticed France had moved along to another box. Weird. He shrugged that off and reached into the box and retrieved one of the papers. He flinched when he noticed the date written on the seal.

 _Le 11 février 1763_

That was only a day after the Treaty of Paris was signed. The day after he was given away.

Canada sucked in a sharp inhale of breath and he could feel his muscles tightening. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

He unfolded the letter and the elegant, French printing told him that it was clearly written by France. He couldn't help but chuckle. Some things never change.

The country already skimmed the first three words and he could already feel himself shutting down.

 _My dearest Mathieu._

Breath, Matthew, breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, keeping his tears from falling out. He decided to keep reading.

 _Mathieu. Canada. It has only been a day since you've been gone and I have never regretted doing something so much before in my life. I know things seem confusing right now, scary even, but it will get better. What I did was for the best. The best for both of us. When you're older, I'll explain everything to you._

For the best?

 _You're living with a new family, Mathieu; a whole new empire. As much as I hate to admit it, the strongest empire in the world!_

Canada managed a shaky smile.

 _With them, you're safer than ever! You finally get to meet your brother, too! You used to tell me about him when I first found you. But as time went on, you seemed to forget about him. I'm happy you can be reunited with him, dear. It makes my heart swell._

The Canadian cast a teary glance to his side, noticing France's sudden movements. The Frenchman was occupied with another box now. It almost felt as if he was trying to avoid the Canadian ... Or those letters.

Canada kept reading, and with every word, he felt himself closing in, nearing his breaking point.

 _I sincerely hope you forgive me for what I've done, Mathieu_.

" _Don't worry, France. I have_ ," he thought to himself.

 _You will forever be in my heart. I love you so much. Please don't cry. Smile for both of us. I cannot wait for the day we meet again._

 _Forever yours,_

 _Francis Bonneyfoy-_

 _France_

Canada was left speechless. His lip trembled, fighting in a sob.

The day he had been given away had been a historical day. Yet, it was one of the worst days of his life. It was the start of his modern life.

He enjoyed his French culture.

He cherished it!

But whenever he would utter anything in French, his new caretaker would punish him. Sometimes it was a slap. Sometimes it was housework. His brother didn't even bother to help him out, choosing to laugh at the sidelines and make horrible French impressions. Alfred got all the attention. Arthur gave him all the best treats, not that Matthew wanted any of them to begin with. But it still hurt.

After having lived with them for almost half a year, England finally gave him that good nights kiss. After America started showing signs of rebellion is when England finally noticed the northern colony. He didn't want to loose him. He needed his reputation. So, he allowed him to start speaking French ... Sometimes.

Canada often wondered what his life would be like if he remained a French territory. Would he still be overshadowed by his brother? Would people actually know his name? Would him and England be enemies?

The day he had been given away was a life changing moment, a moment that still causes him grief.

He let out a breath of warm air, his thoughts overwhelming him. Tears rolled freely down his flushed cheeks. He didn't remember starting to cry. When had he started crying?

Inside the box were more papers. Swallowing a thick lump in his throat, he reached in and grabbed another letter.

 _Le 4 février 1764_

 _My dear Mathieu,_

 _It has almost been a year since you've been gone. Crazy isn't it? It only feels like I lost you just a couple days ago. I think of you everyday, dear. When I lost you, I could feel a part of me being torn apart. I still feel like there's something missing. The years we spent together, Mathieu, were some of the best ones in my entire life._

 _Before I left to the Caribbean, I would go check your room everyday to wake you up. Some mornings I even prepared your favourite breakfast. I wake up hoping to see you again._

 _The house is quiet without you. You are a very quiet child but this silence is unsettling. You made the home have this vibrant aura. Your smile. Your laugh, Mathieu, it was so beautiful. What I would give to see you again._

 _I hope you're getting the hang of English. Such a complicated language, no? England can be quite strict, and America is a whole different story. I hope he's still the brother you remember from before. I hope England hasn't changed the boy. You would tell me stories of how you, your mother and America ran around fields for hours upon hours, and never want to stop._

 _My time is running out, and we are nearing shores of South America now, little one. I wish I could write more often to you, but life has been holding me down. I don't even think these letters will ever get to you, anyway._

 _Please, don't cry. I love you with all my heart and I hope you forgive me._

 _Love,_

 _Francis Bonneyfoy-_

 _France_

Canada's eye bore into the paper, searching for more. It felt incomplete. He felt incomplete. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and he wondered if France could hear it. The Canadian swallowed thickly and squeezed his eyes shut. The violet orbs he had for eyes had become a dam full of tears, that threatened to leak.

The young country hated crying. Especially when it was in front of someone else. He covered his mouth, fighting in a sob. France's eyes were on him now, he could feel it.

So much for hiding it, eh?

Canada sucked in a deep breath of air and gripped the hem of his hoodie. Blonde hair fell in front of his eyes, hiding the watery violets behind strands of wheat. Now France was walking over to him. His body curled in on itself when he felt that familiar hand stroking his wavy hair.

The elder pulled the shuddering Canadian into a warm embrace, rubbing patterns into his back. Said Canadian released an exhausted exhale of air into the others shoulder, feeling embarrassed at his poor display. He was a full grown country! He shouldn't be crying!

"I never wanted to give you away," France murmured in his native tongue.

Canada just buried himself deeper into the mans shoulder.

"I fought with my people for days, pleading them to let me go back to you," he continued, his fingers stopping on the Canadian's lower back. "Apparently my people wanted nothing to do with North America, finding it too cold and barren. Being a country means you feel what your people feel, and usually agreeing to what they believe. But I couldn't give you up, mon petit. I just couldn't." France pulled away from the embrace and held the Canadian's shoulders giving him a sad smile.

France removed his ex-colony's glasses and brushed away his falling tears, locking blue eyes with purple.

"You were my new Jeanne, Mathieu."

Canada visibly jumped at that.

France chuckled. "Not in a romantic sense. But you brought me so much joy, cher, as did Jeanne. I never thought I would be happy after Jeanne's death, but then I landed on the shores of le Nouveau Monde."

Nodding numbly, Canada found it hard to believe any of that. The love Jeanne and France had for each other was indescribable. There was no way he could compare.

"After raising you for nearly one hundred fifty years, it was hard to say goodbye."

A timid smile graced Canada's features. He had forgotten how long he was under France's guardianship. "Yeah..."

France studied Canada's face for a moment before ruffling the boys wavy hair. Canada let out a light laugh, as did the Frenchman. "None of my new colonies even called me 'Papa', too!" He held his chin in thought. "Well, you were always more of a son to me than a brother," he confessed.

"Papa..." Canada echoed. He hadn't said that word for about two hundred fifty years. England forbid him from using the French language for a large portion of his new life with him. When he had finally accepted Canada's multilingualism, it was too late to change.

"Giving you away was one of the biggest mistakes of my life."

~Later~

The G8 meeting would be starting in only a few more minutes. Canada was walking with his brother from the cafeteria, having ate a late breakfast. They chatted about the newest releases dates for superhero movies, a topic they both gushed about.

The North Americans made it to the elegant, wooden doors of the meeting room. America pushed the doors open and announced his presence, earning a few groans from the countries inside. The brothers walked to there usual seats, right beside each other, and sat down.

The door opened once again and the room was immediately engulfed in yelling. Yelling from a Britsh man.

America grinned and snickered. England was once again confronting France about his many problems, and once again creating a scene. Canada and America watched, interest taking over them.

The bickering duo walked by the brothers seats.

France nearly walked passes them.

He turned from England, who was fuming now, and greeted the twins. England continued ranting in the background.

"Hey, Frenchie," America droned, bored now that the conflict had ended.

"Bonjour, Papa," Canada timidly smiled.

The Brit's ranting came to a full stop and America looked at his twin with a look of pure fear. France and Canada grinned ear to ear at their reactions. France ruffled Canada's hair, furthering the reactions of the two other men.

America looked between the two of them, seeming ready to pull out his pistol at any moment. England, on the other had, seemed completely drained of all rage, instead replaced by confusion.

England had his eyes on Canada for a long time. Feeling the tension radiation between the two of them, France grabbed hold of the Englishman's wrist and pulled him away. Almost immediately, the shouting returned. Canada shyly waved goodbye.

The American slammed his on the table, alarming many of the fellow countries, but he only wanted Canada's attention.

"What. Was. _That_?!" The self proclaimed hero loudly whispered to his brother.

Canada blinked. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean'?! You just called the Frenchie 'Papa'!"

The northern brother smiled at the floor, used to his brothers strange hatred towards France. He found it quite amusing. "We just had some catching up to do."

 _Fin._

 **So that was my first fanfiction ever! Wowie, that was a lot of writing. I wrote all of this on my iPad, because I happen to lack a decent computer. I hope this was okay, too. I don't usually write stories, I'm more of a visual artist, preferring to draw.**

 **Aaaaaah, Canada and France have such a sad history together. I study Canadian history in my spare time and I can't help but die inside whenever I read about the Treaty of Paris. :( The episode they made for Mattie in season 6 was inaccurate, too.**

 **But I hope you enjoyed this, or at least didn't hate it! Thank you for reading! :D**


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